His brows drew down in a frown. “No. I came to support the organization.” His gaze caught on something past her shoulder before saying, “But I see you’re here for work.”
“I think I got some good shots.” She heard him before she saw Clark move into view, just when she wished he’d be elsewhere.
Now, Peter had cause to question her dedication to Greenpeace’s cause. Which was ludicrous. If anyone’s motives for being here were suspect, it was his, not hers.
Clark’s gaze shot between her and Peter. “You okay here?” he asked.
She did not have the patience to deal with Clark’s hero-complex now.
“Yes, fine.” After dismissing Clark, Marty turned to face Peter head on. “I can be here for more than one reason, Mr. Greenwood.”
He treated her to a small smile that managed to appear condescending. “Agreed. Just as how an act can be both right and wrong, depending upon the who and the why of it.”
Damn him. He was trying to trick her into supporting his ridiculous supposition about whaling. She pressed her lips together, refusing to validate his comment with one of her own.
Luckily, the speakers were starting to gather in the front of the square. She chose to comment on that instead. “It looks like the presentation is about to start.”
Clark mistook her observation for a directive. “I’ll go upfront and get some close-ups.”
He was gone before she could call him back, leaving her alone once again with Peter.
“Shall we listen to what they have to say, Mr. Greenwood?”
“We can, though I’ve already read the main speaker’s presentation.”
“You what?” she asked.
“I’m friends with him. He asked if I’d look over his notes.”
“Really? You? Are friends with one of the presenters?”
“Mm, hm.” Peter tipped his chin. “The guy on the far right.”
She glanced up and spotted the speaker to the far right, his dark complexion standing in stark contrast against the rest.
“Does he know for whom you work?” she asked.
“He does indeed. But he, unlike you, has forgiven me for the transgressions of my boss. Mainly because he wants me to be able to pay my half of the rent.” Peter smiled. “My job has made for some colorful debates across the kitchen table, however.”
She didn’t want to encourage this man but she couldn’t help her reaction. In spite of everything, she found herself curious. “What’s he speaking on?”
“The effects of toxic waste on the world’s oceans.”
“What does he do for a living?” she asked, fascinated that Peter lived with a man who seemed so opposite from him.
“He works for the EPA. Which, I might remind you, was founded by a Republican president.” His lips twitched.
“Who was later impeached, I might remind you,” she added.
“Yes. Although Nixon resigned from office voluntarily.”
“Semantics,” she accused.
“Fact,” he countered good-naturedly in spite of their debate. “Personally, I’m a Reagan man myself. I have great hopes for Reagan’s bid for the White House this November.”
“This election?” She blew out a breath. “He’ll never beat an incumbent for the party nomination, even if it is Gerald Ford.”
Peter lifted one shoulder. “Eh, if not this election, then he’ll secure the nomination in four years. We have time,” he stated, as if it were an indisputable fact.
“It won’t matter who is on the ticket for your side this election. I have no doubt I’ll be celebrating victory at Carter’s campaign headquarters come November.”
“Is this country ready for a peanut farmer in the White House, do you think?” he asked, appearing genuinely interested in her opinion.
“This country is ready for a Democrat in the White House.”
He briefly tipped his head to one side. “Time will tell. In any event, it will be an interesting race.”
The man was immune to being rattled. It was almost inhuman how he could debate politics with a cool, calm distance. Without raising his voice. Without showing any sort of emotion.
“Yes, it will,” she agreed, noting how her own pulse was pounding.
What was it about this man that compelled her to debate him?
And why was she imagining kissing those lips? He spewed such nonsense she’d normally be tempted to slap him. Instead, she was imagining silencing him in an entirely different way. Putting his mouth to work where they’d both enjoy it.
And if that ever were to happen, she knew politics would be the last thing on either of their minds.
CHAPTER THREE
A Vanderbilt. Jesus.
Looking at her more closely, there was no doubt in his mind the name wasn’t a coincidence. That she was indeed from the Vanderbilt family. As in the robber baron, old money, mansions in every state Gilded Age Vanderbilts.
Her dress probably cost as much as his rent. Her shoes . . . he glanced down and yup, they looked pretty pricey too.
He must be losing his mind pursuing a woman so out of his league.
More than her wealth, he was definitely certifiable for thinking this staunchly left-wing Democrat would ever accept his conservative leanings, even if he did try to consider and understand all sides and opinions when it came to politics.
It wasn’t in his nature to blindly follow any leader or party. He wished she would see that about him. That he carefully weighed the issues, making up his mind on a case-by-case basis.
A squeal of a microphone broke Peter out of his fanciful imaginings about the lovely though contrary Marty Vanderbilt.
He turned toward the speakers just as the crack of glass breaking had his head whipping back around. The burst of flames he saw on the square’s flagstone plaza explained the sound.
“What was that?” Marty asked, barely audible over the shrieks of the scattering crowd.
He spun back to answer her. “Molotov cocktail.”
She shook her head, mouth agape. “Here? Why?”
“I don’t know.” It made no sense to him except for that they lived in volatile times.
He heard sirens in the distance. The police were already on the way. That didn’t prevent a second projectile from crashing into flames next to the fountain.
Shocked screams turned into panic as the attendees clamored to get out of the main entrance of the park.
Slower movers got shoved out of the way by those desperate to flee the danger zone. The few who fell were trampled.
The reaction of the crowd was becoming more of a danger than the homemade incendiary devices.
“We have to get out of here.” He grabbed her arm, feeling the need to protect her.
Marty pulled against him. “Where's Clark? My photographer.”
Peter looked around and finally spotted the young man, working his way against the crowd toward them. “There he is.”
And he was obviously hurt, judging by the blood. He staggered while clutching his camera to his chest.
Peter moved to meet him where he was and looped a hand beneath his arm. “You need that cut taken care of.”
“I fell,” he said simply, sounding as dazed as he looked.
Clark reached up and touched the blood running down the side of his face. He looked down at the red wetting his fingers as if noticing for the first time he was injured.